


Writ Large

by mightbeanasshole



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-22
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 06:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3800641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightbeanasshole/pseuds/mightbeanasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are ten days of downtime between stops on his book tour, so on Tuesday Michael rents a car and looks for a city where he won’t be recognized. He finds a salt-crusted suburb of a suburb on the Atlantic coast that looks like it stopped growing in the fifties, books a room at a dive-y looking spot with a decent view of the ocean called the Seahorse Motel. Bonus points for being within walking distance to a bar, a smattering of restaurants, and a bookstore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are ten days of downtime between stops on his book tour, so on Tuesday Michael rents a car and looks for a city where he won’t be recognized. He finds a salt-crusted suburb of a suburb on the Atlantic coast that looks like it stopped growing in the fifties, books a room at a dive-y looking spot with a decent view of the ocean called the Seahorse Motel. Bonus points for being within walking distance to a bar, a smattering of restaurants, and a bookstore. 

Laptop in hand, he heads to the bar shortly after noon. It’s dark inside and the wood paneling looks older than he is. The people inside are obviously the day-crowd regulars—locals in faded beachwear who arrived by foot, beach cruiser, or motorcycle.

The guy manning the bar fits right in: sleepy-eyed, plenty of muddy tattoos in need of touching up, dark hair that hasn’t seem a comb in a month. Michael takes a spot at the bar and opens up his laptop, waiting for the bartender to wrap up a conversation with a patron.

Michael stares at his blank Word document. The cursor blinks, mocking him. Three weeks and not a word he’s been satisfied with. How many times would he enter Ctrl+A and Backspace today, he wonders? Did he really imagine that this waterlogged tourist trap was going to inspire him? Did he really think a few more beers would lubricate his creativity after three fucking weeks?

“Won’t get any WiFi in here I’m afraid.”

The bartender has finally noticed him and he’s made his way towards Michael’s end of the bar. He presses himself up against the bar, tattooed hands splayed as he braces himself. Ropey, tanned forearms flexing. The man gives him a sleepy-looking assessment.

“That’s ok,” Michael says. “The internet’s just a distraction anyway.”

Something in the bartender’s expression changes when Michael opens his mouth.

“Hey uh,” the guy says, standing up and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. “You probably get this a lot but, you look just like—”

“I am,” Michael says with a half-frown. Christ, the first place he walks in. He can’t escape it. The man’s eyes go wide. 

Blue, Michael realizes in the dim light. Crystal fucking blue.

“Fuck, well, shit,” the man says. “I wish I had something to ask you to sign—shit.” Michael smiles weakly, too used to being polite to fans. “Sorry—I can leave you alone. I’m sure you’re… busy writing—or on vacation? Sorry, shit, what’ll you have? Whatever’s on the house.”

It’s more than a little endearing to watch the man stumble over himself. No wedding ring, Michael notes, feeling predatory.

“I’ll try that pilsner you have on tap,” Michael says. “And you don’t have to leave me alone. A little conversation with a handsome stranger is better than staring at a blank fucking page, I think.”

—

Geoff tries to keep his cool as Michael Jones— _Michael fucking Jones_ —chats with him. Geoff has 50,000 questions for the guy but instead he finds himself being adeptly interviewed–and Jones laughs easily at every joke Geoff makes.

Jones’ questions are so different from typical tourist small talk. It doesn’t surprise Geoff—the man is clearly a genius and Geoff has read and re-read every book he’s ever written, feeling sometimes that a passage resonates so profoundly in his chest that it’s as if the author knows him—has always known him. Writing as powerful as that clearly didn’t come from someone who would make typical tourist small talk.

To Geoff’s stark astonishment, the author—the New York Times best goddamn seller—wants to know how Geoff can tell when the busy season is about to start ( _When the azaleas by my porch start to bloom,_ Geoff exlains,  _the first rush is never far behind_ ). The man Geoff has watched a dozen times on late-night talk shows wants to know when the last hurricane was and whether or not Geoff evacuated _(Beryl was the last one but she blew on through, nobody left. Last real bad one was Charlie but I stayed at the bar. Place’s been here since the 20s so they did something right. Weather got hairy as dicks for a while but we never lost power for a second_ ). The most lauded contemporary author in America wants to know if people actually use metal detectors on the beach or if that’s just a myth ( _Every goddamn day, Michael. Can I call you Michael?_ ).

Geoff watches as the man’s gaze drifts, now and then, down to his lips. He’s glad that the day crew doesn’t require too much from him—Geoff can refill their glasses without looking, without even talking to them. Jones grows more animated as Geoff pours him more beers, answers more of his questions about life in the little town.

“You sound like you’re researching,” Geoff says finally—not wanting to pry, but still curious. Jones seems to mull that over, his dimples disappearing as he chews one exceedingly pink lip.

“Maybe I am,” Jones concedes. “There’s a lot of history to this place. I think I could build a world here.”

“I’d be happy to show you around,” Geoff says. His heart is beating hard and he expects the author to decline politely.

“What time do you get off?” Jones asks immediately.

—

Michael leaves the bar half an hour later.

Back at the motel, he puts his phone on airplane mode and writes for four hours without stopping. He tries to ignore the erection that comes and goes throughout the process. God it felt good to be writing.

—

A little after six, Geoff finds himself standing in front of Room #9 of the Seahorse Motel. He can see the place from the bar—he passes it every day. He’d partied in rooms there growing up, crashed in the motel more than once. He knows exactly what the inside of Room #9 looks like. Best view in the joint.

 _Showtime, Geoff,_  he tells himself.  _Don’t make a fucking fool out of yourself._

It takes an additional minute to work up the nerve to knock. His knuckles barely make contact with the door before it’s being pulled open. Michael Jones is standing on the other side looking sly.  _He’s much prettier in person than on TV,_ Geoff thinks for the twentieth time that day.

“Were you watching me through the peep hole that whole time?” Geoff asks. Michael dissolves into friendly laughter and ushers Geoff into the room, closing the door behind them.

“I’m a fucking creep, what can I say?” Michael says. “I heard you walk up. This motel is insanely quiet.”

“Well at least you lucked out with your room choice,” Geoff says. “This is probably the best spot to watch the sun rise in the whole motel.”

“Yeah?” Michael says, raising an eyebrow and taking a step towards Geoff. 

There is an invisible shift and the air feels suddenly much more alive. Michael’s eyes track over his chest, his neck, to his mouth. 

“You wanna watch it rise with me tomorrow?” Michael asks.

Dumbstruck, Geoff doesn’t answer—and instead he stares almost in awe as Michael tilts his head up, fitting his lips against Geoff’s—the warm contact making Geoff shut his eyes reflexively, his body responding without him as he slides a hand confidently around the smaller man’s hip and pulls him closer—as if there’s nothing shocking, nothing at all out of the ordinary about the most famous living author in America pressing his narrow hips up against a career bartender who survives off of a tip jar and walks in flip flops to work every day. 

Geoff opens his mouth to accept the author’s kiss and the inertia generated is dizzying, Michael walking him backwards towards the motel bed until the back of Geoff’s knees make contact with the mattress. Michael breaks the kiss, pushing him the rest of the way down–but not before Geoff can grab him, pulling the other man down with him.

Geoff shimmies backwards, the other man following him, Michael’s hands on the belt at Geoff’s waist, pressing into him, kissing him again, sliding a hand down the front of his shorts.

“Jesus christ,” Geoff breathes out, breaking the kiss. “So much for a tour of the town.”

“Maybe tomorrow,” Michael says, palming him through the fabric of his boxer briefs, “but you’re the first thing that’s broken through my writer’s block in three weeks and I  _really need to express my gratitude_ before I ask you for any more favors.”


	2. Chapter 2

A week before the young author shows up, Geoff sits on his covered deck listening to Astrud Gilberto sing about Corcovado. It’s Tuesday and the sun’s just gone down. Too early to be as deep into the bottle of nice bourbon as he is–but… well,  ** _there it is._**

It’s hot already in the coastal town, even though it’s not quite May yet. The sweet, golden weeks between the start of warm weather and tourist season, where work is slow and nights take on an endless, shimmering quality even when Geoff spends them alone. All of the thunderstorms have rolled through most days when he hands the bar over to the night shift. Depending on where he stands, the breeze brings him a whiff of jasmine or of warm fish—and when you grow up there with it like this every year, that’s all alright.

It’s paradise. And Geoff Ramsey is absolutely trapped here.

——

“Did you take these?” the author wants to know, standing in front of the three framed photographs in Geoff’s bedroom.

“Why do you ask?” Geoff wants to know.

Michael puts a hand on his hip but doesn’t turn to face the other man. There are three photos, all of storefronts. One is the bar where Geoff works now, but a while ago–maybe twenty years ago, Michael thinks. The other two, Michael doesn’t recognize–a drug store and a restaurant, maybe.

The photos are nicely mounted and unsigned.

“You did take them,” Michael ventures.

“I did.”

“Not everyone has a framed picture of where he works in his bedroom,” Michael says.

He turns, now. Geoff is standing just an arm’s length away, looking cautious, and he rubs a hand across the designs on one arm. The man is wearing what, Michael has noticed, is his default uniform: a t-shirt so old that it barely clings to life–a relic of an old festival or concert, it’s hard to tell from the faded out design.

It’s the fourth day that they’ve spent together, but Michael has been looking at the photos since the first night Geoff had invited Michael to check out of the Seahorse Motel and bring his luggage over to the ancient bungalow the bartender owns.

“How could you tell they’re mine?” Geoff asks.

Michael chews a thumbnail as he attempts to put his thoughts in order, turning back to the photos.

“When you talk about this place, this is what I see,” Michael says. “Maybe I’m romanticizing it because I like you, but I can’t imagine anyone else getting all Ansel Adams over a crumbling storefront.”

Geoff chuckles deep in his chest and steps forward to loop his arms around Michael’s waist. Michael leans back into him, but doesn’t stop looking at the photos until Geoff begins to press kisses into his neck, into the skin behind his ear, into the curls at the back of his head.

—

After, Geoff rises naked to open a window and the hot breeze pushes its way into the bedroom. Michael is still amused by the contrast between the deep tan of his back, his chest, his legs, and the way it stops abruptly where the man’s swim trunks must normally sit–the skin of his lower hips, his upper thighs, his ass a shocking pale. Michael watches him lean a few inches out of the window, palms pressing down onto the sill as Geoff breathes deeply. The muscles in his back move.

He gets his fill of the humid air before returning to bed. He doesn’t move to lay back down, though, or take Michael into his arms, but sits on the edge of the mattress–restless, maybe.

“A bit like marrying your high school sweetheart, isn’t it?” Michael asks.

A smile grows across Geoff’s face. The man knows exactly what Michael is talking about–and more and more, this is what Michael likes about him. No wasted words. No wasted anything. Everything about him–about this house, about what he does and where he lives–is lean and meaningful.

Certainly Michael has met men and women like this, but their efficiency made them mean, pugnacious, and that is not Geoff. He is a honed, quiet element of this unlikely paradise, with the same unassuming existence as a sand dune, a rock face.

Geoff thinks for a long moment about Michael’s question.

“It is,” he says, finally. “Do you think that’s naive of me?”

“Yes,” Michael says, without hesitation.

“My dad’s parents were like that,” Geoff says. “Married, shit, 60 years I think?”

“Did they love each other in the end?”

“Impossible to tell,” Geoff says. “They didn’t regret it, though.”

“They had to wonder,” Michael says, cocking an eyebrow.

“Of course you wonder what else is out there,” Geoff says, turning fully to face Michael now, watching him with those clear eyes, almost colorless now. “I wonder who I’d be if I’d traveled, seen more. You get your doubts.”

“Why not travel, then? You’re hardly elderly–live somewhere else–see something.”

“Would you tell my grandma to go on a few dates when she’d already been married 25 years to her high school sweetheart?”

Michael thinks on that.

“No,” Michael says. “But only because it would be a waste of my breath. You’re smart enough to know what’s out there.”

“I stopped wondering what I was missing a long time ago,” Geoff says. In this moment, the man is zen personified, and Michael can feel himself getting angry at how illogical the statement is.

“So you want to live another 40 years here–you’re content with that?”

“I love this place,” Geoff says with a shrug.

“Your town isn’t going to get its feelings hurt if you get on a fucking plane, Geoff,” Michael says. “I didn’t mean for the metaphor to get that deep, goddamn. This place doesn’t need you–you don’t owe it anything.”

“No place needs me,” Geoff says. “If you stay somewhere–with someone–because they need you… I don’t think that’s love.”

“You’re scared to go,” Michael says, finally. He’s drawn his legs up to himself in bed. He doesn’t know why he’s getting frustrated. Geoff moves on the bed to get closer to him, pressing his hip up against Michael’s folded legs, stroking his knees with one tattooed hand.

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Geoff says, smiling. “I needed something to happen–to tell me that I wasn’t wasting my time–and… well, _ **here you are.”**_


	3. Chapter 3

It rains different here, Michael realizes.

It’s as if the ocean was always sentient and has chosen the rainstorm to make itself known, rising up to beat fists against Geoff’s house, streaming gray sheets against the sliding glass doors a few feet away from Michael.

It’s almost noon but the two of them never even began to make it out of bed.

Michael’s skin chilled by the air pouring out of the ailing window-unit AC, he has pulled on a tank top he found among the wreckage of their discarded clothes on the floor. The cotton garment–Geoff’s–has been washed so many times that it only has the ghost of a color–orange maybe–and it’s soft and delicate as silk.

The rain is aggressive and inseparable from the sea. He’d seen rain like this before–he’s been all over the world in all types of weather–but never realized how different its character is from the rain he grew up with. Laying across Geoff’s bare chest, listening to the man’s body, Michael is experiencing the rain as if removed from any context, as if he were scrutinizing a brand new phenomenon.

This is what Geoff has unlocked: fresh and authentic observation. It is like waking up and finding yourself fluent in a new language, Michael thinks.

It is the fifth day they are together, the mid-point of Michael’s sojourn off of the book tour trail, the first day that Geoff doesn’t have to work–Saturday. Saturday is the only day of the week where Geoff doesn’t walk one block east and four blocks north to go stand behind the bar at Pete’s, just as he’s done for the past nine years.

It has been so long since Michael has worked a normal day job that he had forgotten the way that having to be somewhere gives structure to the day. And it only took three days together for the passage of Michael’s time to fall in step with Geoff’s.

“I’m not going to write about this place,” Michael says.

It takes Geoff a long time to acknowledge that Michael has said anything.

The older man had been drifting–Michael has watched him do it several times a day, every day. It’s something beyond a daydream. He’s watched Geoff’s heavy eyelids dip as he gazes at nothing, breath going deep and still. Each time it happens, Michael feels like he’s seeing something leaden and enormous. A lunar eclipse–but no, that’s not quite right. The imperceptible flow of pitch.

Geoff doesn’t ask why Michael has changed his mind, and that is precisely why Michael has found it hard to leave the bartender’s side for the past five days.

Geoff comes back from wherever he’s been, a hand meeting the base of Michael’s skull and rolling the skin he finds there softly–like he owns it. Like he always has.

“At the risk of sounding like a shitty Jimmy Buffet song,” Geoff says after a long time of thinking about it, “we should go out in this rain.”

“At the risk of sounding like a dick,” Michael says immediately, “your entire hometown is exactly like a shitty Jimmy Buffet song.”

Geoff chuckles deep in his throat at that, bouncing Michael’s head. They go quiet. Geoff traces shapes on Michael’s back under the shirt.

“You should see the beach like this,” Geoff says. “Nobody else out there, rain pounding. You feel like you own it. I’ve felt it a hundred times but I’d wager this is your only chance.”

He doesn’t sound sad at the statement.

Michael could buy this town. Geoff knows it and Michael knows Geoff knows it. The type of money Michael has made through book deals, movie deals, marketing tie-ins… Michael can make anything he wants into a reality. Even the wildest dream has a price tag.

Geoff’s statement is, then, an unspoken question.

“No,” Michael says. He listens to Geoff’s heart beat. “You’ll take me to see it another time.”


End file.
